Framleigh made no reply. He remained silent, and simply looked at the girl. He was not in the most communicative of moods, this morning; he was feeling gloomy and depressed, and not a little irritable, as he did, now and then. He had good reason, he thought, to give way to these fits of gloom, occasionally; they were not so much an unamiable habit as his enemies fancied; he had some ground for them, though he was not prone to enter into particulars concerning it. Certainly he never made innocent little Popham, “Lambkin Popham,” as one of his fellow-officers had called him, in a brilliant moment, his confidant. He liked the simple, affectionate little fellow, and found his admiration soothing; but the time had not yet arrived, when the scales not yet having fallen from his eyes, he could read such guileless, almost insignificant problems as “Lambkin” Popham clearly. So his companion, only dimly recognizing the outward element of his mood, thought it signified a distaste for that soft, scarcely unfeminine, little piping of pretty Polly’s, and felt bound to speak a few words in her favor. “She is not a masculine sort of a girl at all, Framleigh,” he said. “You would be sure to like her. The company fairly idolize her.” “Company!” echoed Framleigh. “What company?” “Old Buxton’s company,” was the reply. “The theatrical lot at the Prince’s, you know, where she acts.” Framleigh had been bending forward, to watch Polly patting the mould daintily, as she bent over her flower-bed; but he drew back at this, conscious of experiencing a shock, far stronger and more disagreeable than the whistling had caused him to feel. “An actress!” he exclaimed, in an annoyed tone. “Yes, and she works hard enough, too, to support herself, and help old Pemberton,” gravely. “The worse for her,” with impatience. “And the greater rascal old Pemberton, for allowing it.” It was just at this moment that Polly looked up. She raised her eyes carelessly to their window, and doing so, caught sight of them both. Young Popham blushed gloriously, after his usual sensitive fashion, and she recognized him at once. She did not blush at all herself, however; she just gave him an arch little nod, and a delightful smile, which showed her pretty white teeth. Illustration: (‡ decoration) MARY NOAILLES MURFREE. (CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.) _Author of the “Prophet of the Smoky Mountains.”_